Angel Falls (17 page)

Julian sped down a residential street, going much too fast. As he approached the imposing entrance to Bel Air, he saw a couple standing on the side of the street.

The woman gasped, pointed. “Oh, my God, Sidney, it’s—”

Julian flashed the lady his trademark grin, then hit the gas, following the winding, stop-and-go traffic into Century City. There, he pulled up in front of a grand high-rise building and parked at a metered spot.

A doorman rushed out, held the door open. “Good evening, Mr. True.”

Julian patted his pocket, found it empty.
Damn
. He was so used to other people picking up the tab, he regularly left his wallet at home. “I don’t have any money with me, kid. I’ll tell Val to tip you, okay?”

“S-Sure, Mr. True … and thank you.”

Julian followed the doorman through the ornate marble-paneled lobby and into the elevator.

At the penthouse, the doors opened. Julian’s agent, Val Lightner, lounged in the open doorway of his condo.

No doubt he was waiting for his most famous client, waiting to pop the champagne.

“Hey, Juli,” Val said, lifting his martini glass in a salute that upset his precarious balance. He staggered against the door frame. “How’d the interview go? I heard they sent you a baby reporter who couldn’t talk for an hour after she got back to the office.”

Julian grinned. “I think she wants to bear my children.”

“The phones have been ringing off the hook since the screening. If you were any hotter, you’d need asbestos underwear.”

They’d been friends forever, Julian and Val; they were cut from the same cloth. Val had made his bones in this business a long time ago, with the world-famous Angel DeMarco, an actor who, for years, had been called the young Robert De Niro, and who—at the peak of his game—had walked away from it all, creating in absentia a legend greater than anything he could have accomplished on screen. Val had wielded the power of Angel DeMarco to create a world-class career for Julian True.

Val grinned lazily and pushed a long, cornsilk-blond lock of hair away from his face. “Come on in, superstar. There’s a babe with your name on her.”

Julian followed Val into the condo, where a raucous party was in full swing. Movie stars mingled with wanna-bes; you could tell them apart by the eyes. The stars looked confident; the wanna-bes looked desperate, starvelings standing at a banquet table where they’d never be fed.

The place had the tasteful decor of a fraternity house. No paintings, no knickknacks, no rugs. Val had bought the unit, picked a few things to sit on, and called it home. But then, Val didn’t need to decorate. In this town, failure to do what you could easily afford had a cachet all its own.

“I need a drink,” Julian said to no one in particular, and within seconds someone handed him a drink. It didn’t matter what was in the glass, as long as it had a
kick. He downed it and glided into the room. He knew that every pair of eyes was on him. The men wanted to be him and the women wanted to sleep with him. And why not? He was on top of the world. There was no perfume like success. He moved through the crowd, laughing and talking, his gaze constantly searching the room.

He saw her on the sofa in the living room, a stunning blonde in a barely-there white dress. Perfect. He strode over and sat down beside her.

His hand slid familiarly along her thigh, and damn, she felt good. “Hiya, darlin’. You’re the most beautiful woman in the room, but I guess you know that.”

She giggled, and at the movement, her grapefruit breasts—the best that money could buy—threatened to pop out of her plunging neckline.

“I’m Margot,” she purred. “Margot LaMere. You like that name? Val made it up for me.” She sniffed and rubbed her runny, pink-tipped nose, then she leaned forward and grabbed her drink so fast that amber liquid sloshed over the rim and splashed on her dress. “I got
great
reviews in my high-school production of
Our Town
.”

Julian felt an unexpected—and unwelcome—flash of pity for the girl. There were so many women like her in Los Angeles.

When he looked closely, he saw that she wasn’t that pretty. Her hair had been bleached so many times it looked like straw, and she was dangerously thin. Her collarbone stood out in mountainous relief against her tanned, sunken flesh. And beneath a dozen layers
of mascara, her brown eyes held a lifetime’s desperation. Girls like her landed in Hollyweird every day, butterflies in search of fame’s golden flower. In a few years’ time, she’d probably be broke and alone and strung out on designer drugs.

It was not the sort of reality Julian liked to consider. He yanked his hand back and lurched to his feet. “I’ll be right back, babe.”

She sighed, and in the heaviness of her breath, he heard that she’d understood. He wouldn’t be coming back.

He turned away from her and made his way through the crowd, past a couple having sex in the hallway.

He found Val in the bedroom, snorting a line of coke off the table by the bed. There was a woman beside him, wearing nothing but a pair of lacy red panties.

Val turned, grinning sleepily. “Hey, Jules, say hi to May Sharona. She wanted to talk to you about a part in—” He cupped the woman’s perfect right breast in his hand. “What movie were you interested in, doll?”

The woman was talking now. Julian could see her painted lips moving, but he didn’t listen. He’d heard it all before.

“I’m going to another party. This one’s dead.” Julian realized a second too late that he’d just stomped all over the woman’s litany of dreams.

Val didn’t seem to notice that May Sharona—what a name—had turned beet red and seemed to be gasping for air. He angled up to a swaying sit. “Whassa matter? I have more coke in the bathroom.”

“No, thanks.”

“No?
No?
” Val untangled himself from the woman and grabbed his martini glass from the end table. He sauntered unsteadily across the room. Looping an arm around Julian, he kind of hung there, swaying, smiling up through a fringe of blond hair. “Hey, before you go, I gotta message for you. Someone called the office, looking for you. A doctor. He said he needed to talk to you about Mikaela Luna. How’s
that
for a blast from the past?” He lifted the martini glass to his lips and took a long, dribbling swallow.

“You’re kidding?”

“No.” Val frowned, as if he’d already forgotten what they were talking about.

“A doctor. Jesus, is she hurt?”

“I dunno. He just wanted you to call him.”

Julian felt a strange fluttering in his chest.
Kayla
. Of all the women he’d known, he’d loved her the most. “Where’s the number?”

Val waved a hand and almost fell over. “I told Susan to leave it on your answering machine.”

“Thanks,” Julian answered, distracted by a sudden onslaught of memories. His first love. Kayla. He hadn’t heard from her in so long he’d almost forgotten her. Almost.

Val slid away from Julian and headed for the bed, collapsing in a heap on the edge. “It’d sure be something to find her. The missing Mrs. True. The press loved her.” He paused, looked blearily at Julian. “And so did you.”

At the gates to his home, Julian spoke into a small black intercom. Immediately the intricately wrought gates parted, revealing a short driveway that led to a sprawling Spanish bungalow. At least that’s what the designer had called it. Five families could live here, and still, in this neck of the woods, it was a bungalow.

Julian had lived here for ten years, two of those with Priscilla-of-the-dessert, four with Dorothea-the-bitch, and one with Anastasia. None with Kayla.

Not one of his wives had added anything to the interior of the house, not a photograph or a lamp or a painting. They had each come here with nothing, added nothing, and left with a few million dollars of Julian’s money. He supposed it was indicative of his problem. He cared more about this home than about the women he’d married and brought here to live.

No, that wasn’t quite right. It wasn’t a home. It was a house that wanted to be a home. He had never had time for a home.

Julian walked up the flagstone path. Bushy green trees in huge terra-cotta pots flanked the way, releasing—even at this dozing season of the year—a soft, citrusy scent. Spotlights cast golden, latticed shadows along the path. A riot of late-blooming pink bougainvillea arched above the front entrance. A dozen Japanese-style ceramic lanterns lit the path.

The door opened and Julian’s housekeeper, Teresa, stood in the doorway. As always, her uniform was as starched and white as a brand-new sail, and not a single gray hair was out of place. “
Buenos noches, Señor True
. How did the movie go?”

Julian was too distracted to smile. “Another hit.” Frowning, he moved past Teresa into the cool, airy house. It was a place of sharp contrasts—white stucco walls and dark walnut trim, white denim-covered, oversized chairs and dark, heavily carved wooden tables. The floor throughout was tile, huge terra-cotta squares and rectangles that forgave any spill.

In the spotless kitchen, he poured two shots of tequila into a Waterford tumbler and downed it, without bothering to reach for salt or a lime. Tucking the bottle under his arm, he began his search. Somewhere in this house there
had
to be a picture of Kayla. He went from room to room, lifting every photograph, until he found what he was looking for. There, tucked in the back of the music room, on a bookshelf too high to reach, he found a framed picture of her.

He dropped slowly to his knees on the thick Aubusson carpet, staring at the photograph. It was their wedding picture.

There had not been a photograph like this taken of Julian in many years. Now, he knew he looked handsome—better looking at forty than he’d been at twenty-four—but there was something more in this shot. He realized with a shock what it was: honesty. Here, in this picture, was the last true glimmer of the man Julian had once wanted to be.

He closed his eyes, remembering her. They had been on their honeymoon, on that yacht in the Caribbean …

“Tell me your real name,” she’d whispered, smiling.

He’d grinned, but it was the Hollywood smile, and
he’d known that it hurt her. “Nope, I don’t tell anyone that.”

“You will. Someday … when you’re ready.”

He’d touched her face, brushed the flyaway hair from her eyes. “That boy is dead, Kay. He isn’t coming back. I
like
being Julian True. It’s who I want to be for you.”

“Don’t you see, Jules? You could be anyone, anywhere, and I’d love you till I die.”

He’d opened his eyes and stared down at the photograph.

She had loved him like no one else ever had, before or since. Loved
him
, not the one-dimensional celluloid image of a man that was Julian True. She had said often that when Julian cut himself, she bled. Even in the blurred afterglow of a life half lived and fifteen years gone by, he knew that he was right in that one belief. She had loved him.

Liam sat at his desk. He didn’t bother to turn on any of the lights, or to leaven the silence by playing one of the CDs stacked by the stereo.

The intercom buzzed. Carol’s staticky voice came through the small black box. “Doctor? Are you in there?”

He pressed the button. “I’m here, Carol. You can go ahead and go home. We’re done for the day.”

“You’re not going to believe this, Doctor. There’s a man on the phone who says he’s Julian True.”

Liam’s heart skipped a beat. “I’ll take it.”

“Do you think it’s the real—”

“Patch him through, Carol, and go on home. We’re done for the day.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

The red light on line one started flashing. Liam took a deep breath, stabbed the button, and picked up the phone. “This is Dr. Campbell.”

There was a pause at the other end, then: “Dr.
Liam
Campbell?”

Even through the impersonal medium of the phone lines, Liam would have recognized the voice. “This is he.”

“This is Julian True. You left a message with my agent, Val Lightner, regarding Mikaela Luna—”

“She’s been injured.”

“Oh, God. How bad?”

“She’s in a coma.”